‘Fuck off. This shitbox?’
‘It’s a classic.’
‘Right. So what’s going on, Ricky? Was it you put up the money for my release?’
Sharp shook his head. ‘No disrespect, Archie, but if I had that type of money I’d never bet it on you. I’m just the messenger, right?’
‘Messenger for who?’
They were heading downhill, towards the large roundabout that would take them onto the A27. Archie could feel the vibrations of wheel-wobble, and hear the creak of a worn bearing and an ominous rumble from the transmission as they made the turn.
‘Not enough sawdust in the diff, Ricky?’
‘Funny.’ They passed the Amex Stadium on their left and the campus of Sussex University on their right. Every few moments the gear shift popped out of drive into neutral and Sharp shoved it back brutally. ‘I’ll let him do the introductions and explaining, Archie – as I said, I’m just the messenger.’
‘Let who?’ Archie could smell burning oil. ‘This shitbox actually going to get us anywhere?’
‘Hey, pal, ever heard of gratitude?’ Ricky Sharp said, looking hurt. ‘Know what the old ads for big Jaguars used to say? Grace, Space and Pace.’
‘And your point is?’
‘You’re in a piece of motoring history – you philistine! Enjoy the ride and maybe say thanks.’
‘I’ll say thanks when I know what’s going on and decide if I like it.’
‘You’ll like it. That I have no doubt about.’
Archie gave him a sideways look. ‘And I’ll tell you what I have no doubt about. Want to hear it?’
‘Go for it.’
‘That whoever put up my bail has given you a big bung. And you’re going to walk away with a wallet full of cash and I’m going to be left negotiating with the Devil.’
‘Maybe, Archie, but just remember, dunno who said it, but sometimes, the Devil is a gentleman.’
44
Thursday, 24 October
Twenty minutes later, they were heading along Brighton seafront. The tide was out, with a vast expanse of sand flats before the slack, calm blue sea. It would be a good morning for digging up lugworm bait, Archie thought, before taking his little boat out, the one he kept beached at the Hove Deep Sea Anglers, to catch some plaice, and if he was lucky, a Dover sole. Maybe he’d do just that later on.
Ricky Sharp swung the Jaguar into the curved driveway of the Grand and pulled up outside the main entrance. A liveried doorman stepped forward and opened Archie’s door. ‘Welcome to the Grand Hotel, gentlemen. Do you need help with your bags?’
‘Just dropping off,’ Sharp said, getting out. ‘This gentleman’s meeting someone inside for a coffee. I’ll just make the introduction, then I’ll hang around out here.’
As Archie climbed out with his bag, the doorman did a sterling job of masking his frown at his shabby clothes and the carrier bag. Ricky greased his palm with a banknote clearly sufficiently large for the doorman to tell him to leave the car where it was and he would keep an eye on it.
They stepped out of the mid-morning sun and through the revolving doors into the air-conditioned cool of the lobby, Sharp leading the way past the front desk, through the lounge to the left and into a sunny, narrow conservatory with a fine view across the road to the sea. There were tables all along but only two were occupied. One by a young couple drinking what looked like Buck’s Fizz, even though it was only just gone 10.15 a.m., and another by someone who looked, even though he might be the Devil, every inch a gentleman.
In his seventies, with elegantly coiffed white hair, he was immaculately attired in a lightweight navy suit, cream shirt and blue-and-white-spotted bow tie, with a matching handkerchief protruding with a neat flourish from his breast pocket. He sat with perfect-upright posture, at a corner table, a pot of coffee and a half-drunk cup in front of him, together with a large brown envelope and a small leather bag, reading a copy of The Times. As he saw the two men approaching, he stood up, head very slightly bowed in deference.
‘Robert Kilgore,’ Ricky Sharp said. ‘This is Archie Goff.’
Kilgore extended a manicured hand, bearing a Wedgwood signet ring, to Archie. He smelled like he’d recently been outside for a smoke. ‘I’m mighty pleased and, if I may say, honoured, to make your acquaintance, Mr Goff. It’s good of you to make the time to come along.’ His voice was a slow, Deep South drawl, warm and courteous and, Archie thought, almost genuine in the sentiments.
He shook the man’s firm hand. ‘Nice to meet you, too, Mr Kilgore.’
‘Please take a seat. Let me order you coffee. Have you had breakfast? I can get you a menu – they do a mean Eggs Benedict which I can recommend.’
Archie had no idea what that was, but he was hungry. ‘Sounds good.’
Ricky Sharp smiled. ‘I’ll leave you two to chat – I’ll be outside, Archie, when you’re ready for a ride home in the limo.’ He walked away before Archie could acknowledge it.
Kilgore signalled for a server, ordered for Archie, asking him to add a fresh orange juice and coffee, then smiled at Archie. ‘Mr Goff, I’m guessing you are wondering right now just what is going on, would I be correct?’ He had a protruding Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down his scrawny turkey neck as he spoke.
Archie, acutely aware he was feeling very out of place, attired as he was, in this smart room, replied, ‘You wouldn’t be too wide of the mark, no.’
Kilgore took a delicate sip of his coffee, folded his arms and leaned forward a little. ‘Well, allow me to give you a little background as to where the bail money came from. I’m an authority in French old master paintings. You know the term, old masters?’
Archie shook his head.
‘I know you are just out of a certain – ah – establishment, and I’m guessing you are eager to get on home so I won’t bore you with a lecture on art history. The gentleman I work for – and let me tell you, this is one hell of a gentleman – is a connoisseur of fine paintings and he has one of the finest private collections in the nation of French old masters. Have you ever heard of a French artist called Fragonard?’
Again, Archie shook his head.
Kilgore picked up the envelope and removed from it a photograph of a painting that appeared to have been taken from an image on a television screen. It was indistinct, poor quality. As he studied it, Archie could see it was two young lovers picnicking in the sunshine against a backdrop of a lake and winged statue to their left.
‘Jean-Honoré Fragonard, like many artists before and after him, made a series of paintings of the four seasons. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. If I tell you that at the last auction of a single Fragonard painting it went for over two million pounds, and the world record is over seventeen million pounds, it might start to explain my employer’s interest in this particular painting. It was on a television programme last Sunday, the Antiques Roadshow. This painting is in the possession of a couple in Brighton. What my boss needs is a better photograph of this.’
Archie frowned. ‘A better photograph?’
‘Let me explain. My employer has dedicated his life to discovering, and returning to their rightful owners, great works of art that have been stolen – looted – over the centuries during times of turbulence – most recently during the Nazi era, both from Jewish families in Austria, Germany and Poland as well as during the German occupation of France. But of course it is a delicate task, and the key to any great piece of art is establishing its provenance.’ Kilgore flashed a smile, revealing nicotine-stained teeth, and Archie noticed the ochre staining around some of the man’s fingers.